


Short Skirt Long Jacket

by owlettica



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Entendre, Ethnic slurs, Guess who’s coming to dinner?, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, I dub thee Zsaszvarez, I'm Bad At Tagging, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/referenced sexual coercion, Improper Use of Power Tools, Mesoamerican iconography, Not Beta Read, Nudity, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Potty words, Predicament Bondage, Tags May Change, Torture, Tough day at the office, Zsasz is always down for some comino spice, Zsasz is an incorrigible flirt, Zsasz loves disco so of course he loves the Bee Gees, a smidgie wee bit of Spanish, anti-Semitism, future Gotham character additions, not even remotely kosher, rating explicit ‘cause genitals, some naughty words in Spanish, unsure if this fic's really explicit but better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlettica/pseuds/owlettica
Summary: Victor Zsasz’s reputation grows in Gotham, due in no small part to various women throughout the city.卌Y’all know the drill: I’m in no way associated with Gotham or FOX. I’m just a sick fangirl writing what I would have loved to see on the show. Please don’t sue me. I haven’t any money.This fic starts off pre-canon but will likely not end up that way.
Relationships: Victor Zsasz & Zsaszettes
Comments: 30
Kudos: 10





	1. Tell the Man With the Money to Come Here and Pay Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifnot_winter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnot_winter/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Zsasz, new to organized crime, gains Don Falcone's confidence with a little help from a businesswoman in Gotham's tenderloin district.

**卌**

“Not a _muscle,_ pet.”

Victor lies perfectly still, supine on the stainless steel table, suppressing the grin teasing at his mouth. The room temperature is far cooler than one would consider comfortable. Zsasz can feel the goose flesh stirring just beneath his skin. His nipples and scrotal skin pucker in response to the cold metal beneath his back, glutes, and bare thighs. Its chill makes him feel more exposed than his nudity or spread legs and outstretched arms—palms _up._

Victor grows heady with anticipation while the tall, dark, catsuited woman with a dramatic smokey eye prowls around him, her mouth painted the cruelest red. She drags the keeper of her riding crop between his inner thighs and thoughtfully teases his genitals, meticulously appraising his well-muscled body.

The woman’s eyes drift to a cluster of keloidal scars that appear to be tallies inside his forearm, imperiously arching a manicured brow at the longest of them. She painstakingly stokes it with the leather tongue of her crop, addressing him with a rich, smoldering contralto. 

“Explain _this_ one to me.”

Zsasz’s pride swells. His length subtly stirs—growing thicker and heavier against his body. He resists the twinge in his hamstrings and glutes before it grows into a full shudder, a smug smirk teasing at his parting lips.

“My _first._

With flashing eyes, the woman smacks down hard on his stirring cock. Zsasz appreciatively groans in response, jaw growing slack while the sting really settles in. When she leans over Victor with a stalwart expression, his eyes soften a tad, weakening under the spell of her high cheekbones and impeccably lip-lined mouth. 

_So red. Thick. **Shiny.**_

The Domina grabs his face and hisses at him, her stilettoed nails mercilessly digging into his cheeks.

“You willful, _impudent_ reprobate.” She rears back her crop. “I have a mind to—.”

In a corner, Victor’s phone lights up and buzzes against a chair, playing the intro to Funkytown. He squeezes his eyes and lips together, cursing the ill-timing. Zsasz glances over to his phone and back to the woman’s unforgiving fingernails before returning her piercing gaze. 

“Permission to answer, Lady Imara? Duty calls.”

Victor’s impish grin is curtailed by the woman’s punishing grip. The statuesque beauty considers his impossibly dark eyes.

“Granted."

The woman slackens her face and hold, releasing him. She steps back and nods him over. Victor hops off the table and strides over to retrieve his phone, flipping it open to answer.

“Yeah.” 

He nods and stores the device between his ear and shoulder, gathering his boxer briefs while he looks back at the striking woman who stands a little taller than him in her 4-inch spiked boots. The moment he begins redressing, she returns her crop to the wall along with other tools of her trade.

“Got it. I’m in the Bowery right now. Gimme…” He glances at the clock on his phone before returning it to his ear, bending for his jacket and reaching inside for his money clip. “Twenty.” 

Zsasz snaps his phone shut, slips it inside his jacket pocket, and quickly counts out a generous amount of cash. He strides over to render payment, ignoring the fact he’s still somewhat hard. The woman’s eyes subtly widen with surprise once she realizes he paid in full—with a substantial tip. She studies him while he efficiently slips into his trousers.

“Aren’t you one of Don Falcone’s men?”

Victor zips himself.

“Uh-huh. Just started.”

The woman watches the man’s ringed, well-practiced fingers deftly tie his laces and takes another glance at her client’s payment.

“You paid _in full_ for a session though we _barely_ got started.”

Zsasz shrugs into his shirt and replies, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Lady Grace speaks highly of you. I made an appointment I couldn’t keep and you lemme keep my phone on as a professional courtesy.” He finishes buttoning his shirt and quickly turns to his shirt cuffs. “You should be compensated.”

The woman thoughtfully nods before smirking at the pale skin peeking from beneath her client’s dark shirt, despite having seen every inch of him. 

“Spoken like a professional.”

Zsasz frowns down at his shirttails and begins tucking them.

“I used to be a businessman.” He thoughtfully tilts his head and squints an eye. “I suppose I still am. Say, I wanna book another session once I better nail down my schedule.” 

“Of course.” She shifts her weight to one leg and idly comments, “Most connected men feel they are _owed_ something.”

Victor quickly smooths himself and idly shrugs.

“I’m not most men.”

The woman arches an impeccable brow and hums with bemusement.

“That you are not.”

The woman puffs a surprised snort and smirks, watching Victor slip into his jacket as he strides for the door. 

“Until then, Mr. Zsasz.”

**卌**

It’s impossible to ignore the smell of the cologne that’s far cheaper than what the man can afford—and while it isn’t necessarily _all_ that terrible, _must he really_ **_bathe_ ** _in it?_

It’s Tony “The Hammer” Balducci. Though somewhat long in the tooth, Don Falcone continues to rely upon Tony when he needs to “make an example”. It’s what Balducci and Zsasz are _supposed_ to do after their mark shows up but Tony’s distracted because they’re in the Bowery, a stone’s throw from its redlight district, where Victor just happened to be calling when he received the man’s summons. 

Balducci’s eyes keep drifting to the women working the area around them. Victor still doesn’t get why _anyone_ continues servicing the infamous cheapskate—even if he _is_ connected to Gotham’s most powerful boss.

Zsasz’s still fairly new to the biz—and totally by happenstance. He apprehended a guy Big Tony wasn’t fast (or fit) enough to chase down. Carmine Falcone got wind of how efficiently Victor took down their mark by one of his other men. Zsasz already knew Balducci, having seen the monster prowling around Gotham back before everything in his life changed.

Before _Victor_ changed.

Or maybe Victor really _hadn’t_ changed. Maybe he was _always_ this way, despite his happy childhood and home. Maybe he just never got the opportunity to let the big predator inside him come out to hunt. 

_To kill._

Because it wasn't until that first kill that Victor ever _truly_ felt alive—in a way he ever had before. The sweet, sweet memory of his very first kill is still crystal clear. He _still_ feels the thick swell of pride in his gut and between his legs. His body subtly shudders, recalling the exquisite sting of the dead man’s blade sinking into his flesh and deep sense of satisfaction when he tallied his first.

Victor absently runs the fingerpad of his thumb across the keloidal scar beneath his shirt, remembering how the man expelled his last, dying breath, pungent with the smell of rotgut. The man’s incredulous eyes briefly widened with the realization it was over, that _he_ was over—and there’s nothing quite like watching the disbelief flash in their eyes, the fear and the horror, until their bodies fall lifeless, their eyes go dead like a doll’s because nobody’s home. 

_Not anymore._

_Not ever again._

Victor subtly shifts and stretches his legs when he feels the stirring between them. He briefly thinks back to the riding crop smacking him, wishing he was still on that cold, hard table beneath the watchful gaze of Lady Imara and _not_ listening to the mouth-breather by his side. 

Zsasz inhales a big breath and presses the heavy tread of his boot soles into the passenger side floorboard of Balducci’s Riviera. He has been doing leg isometrics in the car while they’ve staked out their mark’s hidey hole—that is when he’s _not_ imagining all the different ways he’d love to kill Tony and watch him die screaming… or wailing… or sobbing— _begging_ for mercy.

 _Or maybe he shouldn’t kill him, ‘cause let’s face it. As much as Victor loves it, killing is just_ **_too_ ** _good for some people._

A corner of Zsasz’s mouth appreciatively raises when he imagines Balducci naked, bleeding, and wailing. His grin grows wider, visualizing Balducci crammed inside the crate Victor has in his basement. The bald man casually shrugs.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now is all I’m sayin’. Don Falcone said—.”

“Well, I don’t think I should have to work with a Jew, but Don Falcone said, so... here we are—eh, matzo ball?” 

The large, sweaty man bursts into raucous, self-congratulatory laughter. He elbows Victor, nodding toward his head. 

“Get it? Matzo ball? Because you're bald!” He bellows again, “You kinda look like a matzo ball! Anyone ever tell you that?!”

Victor clenches his jaw so hard his teeth brux. He glances at the clock on his phone and his voice grows tellingly, _chillingly_ low. 

“No, Tony. Hadn’t heard that before.”

_In the past half hour._

“Aw, c’mon man! Lighten up!” Balducci elbows Victor. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it. I _love_ you people! Ya know, I gotta Jewish friend.”

Victor studies the open blinds of the building they’re casing and expels a long, frustrated breath while Balducci continues rambling.

“Besides, I been doin’ this a _lot_ longer than _you_ have. What do you even know about it? You act like we’re under a lotta pressure here.”

Victor slowly blinks with annoyance and finally turns to look at the man, his voice emotionless.

“At least I can actually _catch_ the guy if he makes a run for it.” Zsasz takes a pointed look down at the Balducci’s gut hanging over the waist of his trousers then up to the gaps beneath the placket of a shirt that’s a size too small. “And if anything’s under pressure around here….” Victor arches a brow and nods toward his shirt. “It’s those buttons.”

Tony blinks in disbelief for a moment before raising a fist over his mouth. The man bursts out into a loud, wheezing, coughing laugh. 

“And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor! I mean, I know _a lotta you people_ are funny… I was beginnin’ to wonder about you!”

The large man looks into the rearview mirror to check his teeth and up his nose. He breathes into his hand, sniffs, and scowls before elbowing Victor. 

“Hey, you got any of those mints you carry around all the time?”

Zsasz takes a deep breath and holds it for a while before puffing out a long sigh. He grudgingly reaches into his pocket and hands them over. 

The Hammer takes them into his meaty hand, pops the lid, and sprinkles most of them into his mouth, leaving Zsasz one lone mint. Balducci casually arches a brow, snaps shut the lid, shakes the tin, and shrugs. 

“Guess you’re gonna have’ta get some more. Sorry ‘bout that.” The oaf casually tosses the tin over on Zsaz’s side of the dashboard. “Hey, man. It’s gonna be awhile before anything happens. Cover for me, okay?”

The Riviera groans with relief after Balducci exits. Zsasz puffs out a long, relieved sigh when the driver side door slams shut.

_Thank you._

**卌**

Victor flashes a large, toothy grin down to the man struggling to crawl away after losing use of his legs. Zsasz’s day only got better after Balducci left and never returned. Not only did Victor get to “make an example” all by himself, but he already picked out a choice spot to carve his next four tallies. Zsasz grins, recalling the deliciously satisfying crunch of his mark’s shattering bones. The hitman’s body is already stirring with the promise of more sweet, sweet scars.

Zsasz’s wailing hostage makes a mess of himself as he struggles to pull himself through the pooling blood of his high-priced—now _late_ muscle. His agonized blubbering is music to Zsasz’s ears. An incongruously smooth and calm voice on speaker phone addresses the howling man.

“You understand why I had to do this, Vicenzo. Don’t you?”

The man’s only response is more wailing. Victor strides over to his victim and yanks him by the hair, snarling.

“Don Falcone just asked you a quest—.”

The measured voice on the phone calmly reassures the henchman.

“Victor, allow Mr. Ossani a moment. He has much to consider. Please put Anthony on the phone. I’d like to speak with him.”

While Victor cannot _stand_ Balducci, the man is Falcone’s favorite fixer. Zsasz takes a breath and holds it for a moment before replying. He squints and scratches at his temple.

“He’s uh… he’s kinda tied up right now.”

After a long pause, the Don replies. His voice loses some of its warmth.

“I _see._ Very well, then. It sounds as though you have things well in hand. Please report here immediately once you’re done.”

Victor chirps a cheery reply. “Yes, sir.”

Zsasz snaps his phone shut and pockets it. Ossani struggles to inch along faster, pleading for his life. Victor dispassionately watches the man before yanking him back with a toothy, raptorial grin.

“Where do you think _you’re_ going?”

**卌**

Victor stands in Carmine Falcone’s office, somewhat surprised to be directly reporting to Gotham’s undisputed sovereign—not silently standing behind Balducci while he gives the report and exaggerates his personal efforts while downplaying, or outright _omitting_ Victor’s altogether. The Don has yet to remark on Tony’s absence or failure to check in. The mob boss leans back in his large leather chair and crosses his arms, subtly quirking a brow.

“And you handled them all yourself?”

Victor curtly nods, his fresh tallies now tacky beneath his shirtsleeve.

“Yes, sir.”

Don Falcone thoughtfully strokes his chin and scrupulously regards Victor for a long moment.

“I see. Well, young man, I must say—.”

Suddenly, Victor’s phone begins ringing. He glances down to his jacket pocket before returning Falcone’s gaze. The Don grants his permission by nodding him toward his phone. Zsasz quickly retrieves it, blinking in surprise at Tony’s number. The henchman pulls down the corner of his mouth and answers.

“Hey, Tony. Where did you—?”

Balducci’s screaming interrupts Zsasz mid sentence, his bellowing loud enough for Don Falcone to hear.

“M-m-matzo ball! For fuck’s sake! You gotta help me—!”

The sound of a loud crack prompts the man’s anguished man’s yelp, only to hear some muffling and silence. Victor blinks with surprise and tentatively speaks into the phone.

“Tony? You still there?”

After a brief pause, a woman with a deep and familiar voice addresses him.

“With whom am I speaking?” 

Victor crinkles a brow, struggling to place the throaty voice while he looks at Don Falcone, now carefully watching. Zsasz presses the speaker button for the man’s benefit and responds.

“Zsasz here.”

The woman hums for a moment.

“I wasn’t expecting for us to speak so soon after our last appointment.” 

Victor’s lips part when he realizes it’s Lady Imara. He cranes his head back and begins nodding while she continues. 

“Mr. Zsasz, your… _colleague_ neither appreciates a professional’s skill nor values their services.” Another hard whack and muffled whining becomes audible through the phone. “He feels his ‘connections’ _entitle_ him to service without payment—unlike you. He could learn much from your example.”

Both men hear another fearsome crack and stifled cries. 

“He has been blubbering about a ‘work thing’. I wanted to return the professional courtesy you extended and inform you he’ll be _indisposed_ until he ‘settles’ his debt.”

**卌**

Zsasz considers Lady Imara’s displayed tools on her mounted wall rack. He’s been thinking about a metal pegboard for his workroom. Don Falcone concludes his conversation with her on speaker phone.

“It is unfortunate we had to become acquainted under such circumstances. Let me assure you nothing of the sort will happen again. Victor will _personally_ see to it. Please accept this small token of my gratitude for your discretion in this matter.”

Zsasz removes a thick envelope of cash from his jacket and approaches the industrial table upon which he was sprawled earlier, setting the envelope beside his open phone. The woman briefly studies its generous contents before sauntering over to Tony who is gagged and whimpering on his hands and knees, unable to move and shaking with fatigue from the humbler within which he’s bound. The testicle cuff clamped at the base of his scrotum is mounted at the center of a bar passing behind his thighs directly beneath his ass. The device makes it impossible for him to move without pain. 

Victor appreciatively smirks when Lady Imara raises a foot to lift Balducci’s chin—the irksome man Zsasz can now thank for his promotion.

The Dominatrix peers down at the man’s blotchy, agonized face and responds to the crime lord.

“ _Thank_ you, Don Falcone. You are most generous.”

“Victor, see to anything else Ms. Imara may require before you leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Victor grabs his phone from the table, snaps it shut, and pockets it. The woman strokes Balducci’s face with her boot and shakes her head, tsking. 

“Seems such a shame to let you go now.”

Zsasz approaches his soon-to-be _former_ coworker. The baritone in his voice rumbles.

“And just when things were about to start gettin’ good, huh Tony?”

Victor watches Tony struggle to still his lower half in hopes of avoiding greater pain, purring in response to Balducci’s muffled wails. A corner of Zsasz’s mouth raises and he teases at Balducci’s testicles with the heavy tread of his boots.

“What was that about matzo balls again?”

The woman's throaty chuckle brings Victor back to himself. Falcone's new fixer squints for a second, casually nodding toward the man on the floor.

“You need anything else before I take him off your hands, Lady Imara?”

The woman puffs with amusement, shaking her head.

“No. You’ve _more_ than seen to everything.” Just as Victor is about to return his attention to Balducci, she addresses him again.

“Mr. Zsasz?” She thinks for a moment before returning his gaze. “Outside of session? Call me Tasha.” Her voice and eyes grow warmer. “It’s what my friends call me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, for anyone who has made it to the end of this chapter: thank you kindly for the read. It means a lot.
> 
> Return readers? WHUT? Thanks for coming back and reading my sh!t, y’all! I know. It’s been awhile. Things have been… *shakes head* ...you already know, so never mind. Thanks in advance for being my betas! :3 Please accept my apologies for any goofs! Be sure to holler at me if you find any so I can fix ‘em.
> 
> 卌
> 
> I’ve been wanting to write about Zsasz knockin’ around Gotham and headhunting his sexy, bad-@ss assassin ladies for a good long while now. I got the idea from [ CAKE’S “Short Skirt Long Jacket”](https://open.spotify.com/track/3VRZ4HSd1Kvzu72bq0NulO?si=uaME-E_RQW66qI_fAaUo2A%22). Tasha is one of the women from my collabs with the one-and-only Filthycasual. Her “story” was partly inspired by the opening of an old RuPaul song, [ “A Shade Shady”](https://open.spotify.com/track/2VGUOqkO6Ea7NbggWcDmZV?si=nQ4I2YLlTGCvZokYX3-ssw)—where the late, _great_ LaWanda Page says, “Tell the man with the money to come here and pay me.”
> 
> The greatest inspiration is the classiest Gotham writer I know and my sister-from-another-mister, ifnot_winter. _Yeah. You, girl!_ Thank you—not only for our shared love of Zsasz’s relationship with “The Girls”, but for outright encouraging me to continue exploring it—even though… _*quietly whispers*_ I have absolutely _no_ idea where I’m going with this story. 
> 
> _*cringes from embarrassment*_
> 
> Don’t hit me! You love me! Remember?


	2. Work Safety Violations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zsasz finds another recruit at a busy construction site.
> 
> Later that evening, Victor finds himself faced with a decision at the dinner table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The upcoming chapter has got some Spanish—mostly slang, potty words, colloquialisms, and food. Lucky for you I’m like... third/fourth generation Mexican so, it’s pretty watered down but, still. 
> 
> Oh, and for those of you who _don’t_ speak Spanish? Do _not_ attempt repeating some of the language in here—especially the stuff from the construction site. (That is, unless you’re _fully_ prepared to get your &ss kicked.)

**卌**

Zsasz waits for the low rumble of his ‘67 Chevy to quiet before stepping from his Impala, parked across the street of a busy construction site in Midtown. He dropped by to confirm his contact is still able to help with disposal for an upcoming gig. He shuts the door behind him while he thoroughly surveys the area, finally locating the dark, stocky Latino pointing out some scaffolding to one of his men. 

Victor leans against his Impala, crosses his feet at the ankles, and eases back to wait. He idly gazes around, taking in the thrumming worksite and an occasional shout among the workers. Just beyond the sounds of pounding hammers, popping nail guns, whirling saws, and drills, is the din of morning rush hour traffic. Victor grins at the sound of blaring car horns and the particularly colorful tirade of an angry driver waving an arm outside his delivery truck.

Most of the men on the bustling worksite are working at a fairly steady pace, but one worker stands out from the rest. Not only are they noticeably smaller than most of the men, they’re working circles around them. The compact worker hurries off to grab a load of lumber. On their way, they tip up their hard hat to wipe the sweat from their forehead with the back of a shirt sleeve. Zsasz puffs out a surprised snort and slowly strokes his chin at their winsome features. 

_A woman._

About that time, the foreman finally notices Zsasz and waves. The dark, stocky man offers a wide grin and appreciatively wolf whistles at the hitman’s hardtop. Vargas approaches from across the street, nodding toward the long, sleek blue car with a black vinyl top. 

“When you gonna sell me that Chevy, ese? You know I’d take _real_ good care of Blue.”

Victor clucks and shakes his head.

“That would be _never_ , Javi.” Zsasz lovingly strokes his Super Sport. “She’s _all mine._ ” He quizzically tilts his head and crinkles his face. “We still good this weekend?”

The sweaty man removes his hard hat and stores it under an arm. He grabs a bandana from his back pocket and wipes his forehead, nodding.

“Yeah. Everything’ll be ready. So uh… is it just gonna be you?” The man leans forward and mischievously looks side to side with a knowing smirk. “Or are you bringin’ some of that _fine_ help of yours?”

Victor rubs beneath his lower lip with the knuckle of a thumb and casually shrugs.

“Depends if the job gets… _complicated_.” The hitman pauses for a moment before his face goes wicked, offering a sly, one-eyed squint. “And dude. Seriously? The Girls would eat you alive.”

The man wistfully sighs and flashes a wide, toothy grin.

“¡Pues sí! But what a way to go!”

Victor’s eyes drift back to the worksite, snickering at the man’s quip, but his amusement trails off when he notices a workman sneaking up behind the unsuspecting woman. When she bends to retrieve some lumber, the guy grabs her by the hips, squats, and proceeds to hump her while a bunch of leering men egg him on, hooting and hollering. 

Zsasz immediately uncrosses his arms and ankles. However, before he can stride over, the woman quickly rears back and slams her head against the unsuspecting man’s face. The stunned workman grabs his broken nose and staggers backward. All the while, blood gushes into his wide, gaping mouth and all over his khaki-colored work shirt. The furious woman spins around, rears up her leg, and slams her foot in his crotch. Her assailant yelps and doubles over in pain, protectively taking himself in hand. The moment the man leaves himself open, she slams the lumber against his broken face and he falls to the ground. 

Zsasz slowly raises a fist over his wide, open-mouthed grin and chuckles with delight. Vargas, the foreman, turns back to the site, stunned to see his best guy on the ground with a bloodied face and his newest worker standing above him and sneering. Her chest is heaving and her face twisting with rage while his wide-eyed crew watches on in stunned silence, their mouths agape. Vargas runs toward the woman, waving his arms and shouting.

“Xoc! What the _fuck_ are you doing?!”

The woman screams back at the foreman, pointing back toward the man on the ground with the lumber still in her hand.

“This _pinche_ cabrón grabbed my ass and _humped me_ como un perro sucio!”

Javier approaches, shaking his head. He raises his hands and makes a calming motion with them, attempting to assuage her fury. He apologetically replies.

“Look, I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding.” He nods toward the injured man on the ground. “Right, Ramón?”

The bested worker wipes his bloodied face with the back of his sleeve and begins rising. He sneers at the woman, masking his pain while struggling to stand. He grudgingly snarls.

“Yeah. It _was_ a misunderstanding.” Ramón tries schooling his face to keep from wincing. After finally managing to right himself, he spits the blood from his mouth and scowls at the woman through his blood-tinged teeth. “Because who the _fuck_ in their right mind would want _this_ puta fea?”

The wiry woman tosses aside the two-by-four and shoves up the long sleeves of her t-shirt. She bristles and crowds the man, unfazed by the fact he dwarfs her.

“The _fuck_ you say, huevón?!”

The man steps closer and towers over the Latina, trying to use his size to intimidate her. He taunts her with a mocking voice.

“You _heard_ me. What’cha gonna do about it?” The man slowly grins. _“¡Machorra chingada!”_

The foreman’s eyes go wide and he runs faster, yelling at the deceptively small woman glowering up at Ramón, all the while reaching for her nail gun and pushing back the safety contact. Javier’s warning comes faster while she aims at the clueless man’s crotch.

“Xoc! _Don’t you fucking dare!_ I don’t give a _shit_ if you’re Chubby Sosa’s baby sister! I swear by La Virgen you better _not_ fucking—!”

The woman stretches a sadistic grin and shoots her assailant between the legs. After the screaming man falls, howling in pain, she spits on him and storms toward the foreman, ripping off her safety vest and throwing it at him. 

“Fuck _you_ , Vargas! _I quit!_ ”

Zsasz watches the entire spectacle transfixed. The woman removes her gloves, shoves them in her back pocket, and stomps off the site—making her way over to where he’s parked. After removing her hard hat and tucking it beneath her arm, Victor finally notices the elaborate Mayan glyphs tattooed on either side of her mohawked head. Her blue-black hair has turquoise tips and her gauged ears have black plugs with jade skulls. Her makeup consists of some black liquid eyeliner, mascara, and a little lip tint. Victor’s eyes trail down to her neck, where she has tattooing akin to leopard spots, possibly jaguar.

The wiry woman retrieves a pack of cigarettes and taps out a filterless stogy while she strides in his direction. She scowls at Victor with her approach.

“What are _you_ lookin’ at, white boy?” She shoves a smoke in her mouth and aggressively nods toward him, her face hard. A corner of Zsasz’s mouth rises with amusement at the way her cigarette tilts up and down. She snarls at him.

“You want some too?”

Victor smiles and crosses his arms while he leans against his car. 

_This one is spirited._

He thoughtfully squints, considering her offer for a moment before casually shrugging and chirping back.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

The woman’s face screws up at his unexpected breeziness. She digs into a front pocket of her Dickies and fishes out her Zippo. Victor nods back at the wailing man back at the site with a vulturine grin. His voice is low, _guttural._

“Guess Ramón won’t be forgetting _that_ lesson anytime soon, huh?”

The woman shifts her weight to one side and lights her smoke, resting her thumb on the lid of her lighter. She toggles it open and closed while she curiously studies the unusual stranger. After inhaling a long, deep drag and regarding him for a bit, she puffs out a wry, smoky reply.

“No. Serves him right too. _Fucking_ asshole. Maybe he’ll think twice before he tries pullin’ _that_ kinda shit again.” She takes another drag and nods toward Victor’s clothes, snorting out her exhalation. “You’re dressed _real_ nice to be hangin’ out here.” The tattooed woman considers his Impala for a long moment, before nodding toward it. 

“And what’s a güero like _you_ doin’ with a car like _that_ , anyways?”

Victor puffs out an amused snort and shakes his head, smirking. 

“Maybe you should ask your big brother.” 

She blinks in surprise and suspiciously walks up closer. She tilts her head to look on the other side of him, pointing out his opera window with her cigarette.

“Those came custom only.”

“Uh huh—and why I had to have it. Never seen another Impala with one before.”

The woman’s brow crinkles in thought for a moment. 

“Chimalmat said he restored one like that. Wanted to keep it for himself but he couldn’t ‘cause….” A flash of remembrance crosses her face. She narrows her eyes at his shoulder holster, soon blinking with disbelief when she realizes she is talking to Don Falcone’s new fixer. The streets have been abuzz with The Hammer’s recent disappearance and his surprising replacement—who is often seen with a female crew and not the mafia’s old guard.

“Oh shit.” Her lips part and she absently points at him, her eyes growing wide. “You’re… _Victor_ **_Zsasz_** _._ ”

He flashes an unnerving, wolfish grin and waves. 

The woman swallows and briefly cuts her eyes to the side in respectful deference, but by no means cowering. Xoc takes another drag and holds it for a thoughtful moment before puffing out again. The Mexicana shifts her weight, her aggression finally tempered by cautiousness while she tentatively addresses the hitman.

“So, uh…” She shrugs. “Did you… _need_ somethin’?”

Zsasz pulls down the corners of his mouth and nonchalantly shakes his head.

“Not really. But since you’re offering….” He nods towards the construction site. “And it looks like you might need another job… ” 

He squints an eye and tilts his head, arching a brow. 

“Any chance you’d wanna come work for _me?_ ”

  
  


**卌**

Victor is enjoying the drive with his newest recruit to the outer boroughs, where she has been staying with her mother. Xoc jumped at the opportunity to move into the old manufacturing building where Zsasz works and lives with _“The Girls”_ after seeing the spacious quarters he had available. The hitman reaches for the volume knob on his car stereo, bumping it up when he hears the opening to the [ Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive” ](https://youtu.be/I_izvAbhExY). He grins from ear-to-ear, humming.

“I _love_ this song.”

Xoc amusedly watches the hitman unabashedly gyrate and sing with Barry Gibbs’ signature falsetto. After a while, she tentatively asks, “Hey, so… that guy at your place?”

Zsasz absently hums and replies, “Wendy?”

“No, not Headhu—I mean, _Wendell_.” She shakes her head. It feels weird _not_ calling the man by his street monicker. “The _other_ guy.”

Victor thinks for a moment and draws a blank, unable to recall any _‘guests’_ he may have been entertaining. He squints, clueless as to whom she might be referring. “ _Which_ other guy?”

She points to her neck. “The one with the _collar?_ That Tasha had on a leash? That The Twins treat like… _furniture?_ He looks… I dunno, familiar or somethin’.”

Zsasz finally, _slowly_ nods with understanding. “Oh. _Meatball._ ” He shakes his head and waves her off. “He’s nobody.”

Xoc points a little way ahead, directing him. “Yeah, this next right coming up.” She turns back to her new boss. “Really? I coulda swore I seen him around.”

Zsasz nods in confirmation, slowing for the turn. “Well… he _used_ to but…” The henchman straightens his steering wheel after the turn. He pops off a sharp, two-toned whistle. “Not anymore.” Victor flashes that unnerving, toothy grin, looking wholly pleased with himself. “Not since I got his job.”

Xoc blinks with shock. “You mean _that_ is ‘The Hammer’? Tony _fucking_ Balducci? Everyone thinks he’s dead!”

“Yeah, see… _first off?_ Don’t call him that. He’s _‘Meatball_ ’ now.” Zsasz leans toward her and stretches a sadistic grin. “Actually, _Tasha’s_ the one who got the jump on him.” He elbows the small woman, smirking. “You should ask her about it sometime.”

Xoc has been wondering about Zsasz’s arrangement with the beautiful, _dangerous_ women who work and live with him.

“Hey so… you and Tasha? Are you two a thing or somethin’? Y’all seem… _close_. The Twins too.” Xoc recalls the gorgeous women who towered over her earlier and suppresses a lustful moan.

Zsasz stops at a four-way stop and wags his head. “I mean… we _all_ mess around _sometimes,_ but…” He points an index finger downward and squares his jaw, his voice stern. “ _Business_ before _pleasure. Always.”_ His hard edge softens again. “Everybody does their own thing. Or each other.” Zsasz idly shrugs. “You know, _whatever_.” He finally turns and studies her for a bit, grinning mischievously. “Why are _you_ so interested?”

Xoc catches the glint in Victor’s eyes and raises both hands, shaking her head. “Hey, man! Don’t be gettin’ no crazy ideas ‘cause I am _not_ into dudes!” She sticks out her tongue and shudders. “But Tasha? Saffie? Egypt?” Her gaze grows lustful. “I’m kinda scared of heights but… I’d _most def_ make an exception for them!” She winks and loudly wolf whistles before breaking into self-congratulatory applause. 

Zsasz purrs with his rich baritone. “Oh, I think y’all are gonna hit it off _just_ fine.”

Xoc’s face splits into a wide grin, imagining all the possibilities. Around the block, kids are playing hoops or jump roping Double-Dutch. She nods toward a brightly-painted ranch style home several houses down.

“That’s it over there. You can’t miss it. The one that screams, _‘mi gente’._ ”

When Victor’s face scrunches up with puzzlement, the mohawked woman shakes her head. “ _‘My people.’_ ”

Zsasz responds with a sympathetic nod. “I’m Jewish _—and Polish._ ”

As they drive up in front of the house, Victor arches an appreciative brow at the sleek, black Galaxie 500 parked in the driveway. Xoc curses under her breath.

“Fuck. Chimalmat’s here.”

“I thought your brother was cool.” He quizzically scrunches his face, “—That _y’all_ were cool.”

“We _are_ , it’s just…” She keeps looking out for her older sibling. “He pulled some strings to get me that job with Vargas. He’s gonna be _so pissed_ when he finds out I—.”

“Shot Ramón in the junk?”

“No man, that I _quit_ and…” The small woman deflates. “Well, yeah. Prolly _that_ too. He’s gonna be all over my ass about it.” She turns back to him. “Hey, just… wait here, okay? I’ma run inside and grab some of my shit. I won’t be long.”

Zsasz nods but before he can reply, Chimalmat “Chubby” Sosa strolls out from behind his Ford, slowing when he catches sight of Zsasz’s Chevy. The large, heavily-tattooed Latino cautiously approaches, lips parting when he notices his baby sister seated up front in the unmistakable car with its notorious owner. 

Xoc emerges from the Impala to meet her brother who is decked in a white t-shirt and crew socks, crisp Dickies shorts, and Chuck Taylor low-tops. 

Chimalmat rubs the back of his shaved head, warily eyeing Victor before furrowing his brow and quietly scolding his baby sister.

“ _What the fuck, Xoc?!_ Chuy said you shot Ramón— _in the dick!_ _With a nail gun!_ _Who the fuck even **does** that? _ I gave Javier _my word_ you wouldn’t give him any trouble. You’re _lucky_ no one’s pressing charges! Where the fuck you gonna work now?”

Xoc thumbs her nose and looks away but before she can reply, Zsasz comments from inside the car.

“Dude had it comin’.” The hitman steps from the driver side and stands inside the door, resting his elbows on his hardtop and nodding toward her. “I saw the whole thing. Ramón grabbed and humped her. She broke that piece of shit’s face— _and_ castrated him. If she hadn’t, _I_ would have—and wouldn’t have been as nice about it either.” Zsasz tilts his head and flashes his teeth. “Don’t worry about Vargas. _Or the job_. She works for _me_ now.”

Chimalmat blinks with astonishment and shoots his little sister an impressed nod. An attractive middle-aged woman favoring Xoc emerges from the front door, wiping her hands on her apron. When she spots the stranger accompanying her daughter, she removes her apron, smoothes her hair and dress, and walks over to greet him. She flashes her youngest a hopeful look and approaches Zsasz with a large, appreciative grin.

“Ay, mi hijita. You didn’t _tell_ me you were bringing home a guest for dinner.” She expectantly looks to her daughter and nods toward the man with the gleaming Impala, assessing his jacket, vest, and dangling suspenders. “Pues, Xoc. Introduce me to your… _friend._ ”

The Latina sucks in a huge breath through her teeth, frustrated by her mother’s obvious excitement that she _finally_ brought a _man_ home and not another girlfriend _._ She rolls her eyes, shaking her head with exasperation. “He’s not a _friend,_ Mamá. He’s my… new boss.”

. . .

Chubby Sosa sits at his mother’s kitchen table, wide-eyed with amazement that Carmine Falcone’s new fixer is comfortably seated across from him, happily sipping coffee and eating Mexican pastries. The hitman holds up the last of a yellow concha between his ringed fingers—after having eaten a polvoron roja and an empanada de calabaza y camote. His mother has been hovering and fussing over the bald man since his arrival.

Xoc walks out of the kitchen with tortillas de harina fresh off the comal and a plate with mantequilla. She places the flour tortillas and butter on the table so the men can eat first, rolling her eyes with annoyance. When the doorbell rings, her mother shouts from the kitchen, announcing a neighbor’s arrival.

“¡Mi hija! ¡Ahí viene Luli!”

Zsasz finishes off his pan dulce, grinning when Xoc snorts out a long, embittered sigh and stomps over to the door. When the tiny woman swings open the door to a tall, strapping Latino in a white undershirt and khakis carrying a covered dish, Victor sits up straighter in his seat and wipes the sugar from his mouth and fingers with his napkin. 

Xoc dispassionately greets the son of her mom’s neighbor. The Mexicana grew up on the same block as the annoyingly handsome Puertorriqueño, but they ran in _very_ different circles. Her older brother affectionately heckles the Puerto Rican from the kitchen table. 

“¡Longaniza!”

Mrs. Sosa smacks her son with a wooden spoon, reprimanding him for any number of reasons: announcing the Puerto Rican sausage Mrs. Alvarez occasionally sends over, shouting in the house, or loudly insinuating one of the biggest reasons Carlos Alvarez is so popular with the ladies. 

“Chimalmat! _Chht!_ Don’t be so vulgar!” She nods toward the white man seated at their table, wearing a vest and jacket. “We have company.” She apologetically turns to Xoc’s new boss. “Lo siento, Mr. Zsasz.”

Zsasz raises a hand and politely shakes his head, acknowledging the woman’s embarrassment about whatever Chubby may have blurted out. “It’s no problem, Mrs. Sosa. And _please_. Call me Victor.”

The woman hurries to the door, stands on her tiptoes, and warmly embraces the attractive man. “Carlos! What a surprise!” She expectantly peers behind him, looking for his mother. “¿Dónde está tu Mamá?”

Zsasz watches the exchange with rapt attention, appraising Carlos’ winning smile, his strong arms, and pecs as the man self-consciously wipes at a few smudges on his undershirt while he speaks with Xoc’s mother. “Mamá can’t make it. She got a last minute call to help at church tonight because one of the babysitters got sick—but she sent over some longaniza con vegetales.”

Xoc grumbles, “Good. That means I won’t have to set out a plate for _Father Miguel_ , too.”

Mrs. Sosa ignores her daughter’s remark, focusing instead on the tall man frowning down and apologizing for his undershirt. “Sorry, Mrs. Sosa, I spent most of the day helping her with things around the house and I lost track of time.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t clean up before I came over.”

The woman reassuringly strokes his face and beckons him inside. “No te preocupes. ¡Pásale! We’re just about to sit down and eat.”

The man politely refuses, “Ay, no. I shouldn’t. I’m all sweaty.” 

“¡Basta! You’re having dinner with us. You’re family.” The woman turns to her daughter. “Xoc, go—.”

The tiny woman sucks her teeth, “I _know,_ Mamá.” She takes the covered dish and walks it to the kitchen, shaking her head and grumbling back at the man between her teeth.

“Just _get in here,_ Carlos. The longer you say no, the longer _I_ have to wait before _I_ get to eat.”

Zsasz appreciatively grins when the looker finally concedes and wipes his feet to enter. Chimalmat quietly coughs and shifts the table. The large man casts a Victor a conspiratorial look and murmurs. 

“He’s a cop.”

Victor subtly raises his brow and discreetly nods, relieved he’s only wearing an ankle holster since he’s off-duty.

_Gotham’s Finest, indeed._

Chimalmat rises to greet the visitor and playfully rears back a hand before extending a warm, familiar handshake. 

“It’s been a while, carnal! How you been?”

“Bien, bien hombre.”

The men quickly pat one another, exchange pleasantries, and briefly catch up. Apparently, “Carlos” is considering transferring to another precinct, becoming a detective, or both. Victor stretches back in his seat and rubs his thighs, ogling the man’s strong jaw, thick lips, and coarse, wavy hair. 

Zsasz’s eyes drift to the man’s chest hair and tattoos peeking from beneath his ribbed, white undershirt. The Latino is in peak physical condition: sculpted arms, pecs, abs, and an ass Victor would love to take a great big bite out of. The hitman’s lips part at the stunner’s dimples, his five-o’-clock shadow, and blinding white smile when he turns to offer a hand, introducing himself.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I’m Carlos.”

A corner of Zsasz’s mouth appreciatively rises while he accepts the man’s hand.

“Victor.”

“Mucho gusto—.” Carlos shakes his head and sheepishly corrects himself. “Nice to meet you.”

The hitman slowly licks his lips and grins.

“Oh, the pleasure’s _mine._ ”

Alvarez shakes the unusual stranger’s hand and appraises his striking features: his hairless brow and the gap between his teeth on the left side of his mouth. Victor, emboldened by the Puerto Rican’s dark, wandering eyes, holds Carlos’ hand a tad longer than most men would consider comfortable. 

By the time Alvarez realizes he’s staring, Xoc’s mother arrives with two huge plates, directing him to seat himself adjacent to Zsasz. She sets down Victor’s plate, loaded with arroz con pollo, the Alvarezes’ longaniza with vegetables, a couple of tamales, and charro beans. Mrs. Sosa, warmly smiles at Victor, encouraging him. 

“Don’t wait for us. Eat while it’s hot.” She beams down a large smile, nodding. “A good friend made those tamales. They’re my favorite.”

Victor’s eyes twinkle with delight at the feast laid out before him. He drawls out his sing-song reply. “Thank you, Mrs. Sosa.”

The hitman liberates a steaming hot tamal from its corn husk. He cuts it in half with his fork and raises it to his mouth. He consumes the spicy morsel and moans with appreciation, quickly diving into the remaining half. Zsasz takes a few hearty bites of the chicken and rice, smirking at Carlos when their knees bump beneath the table as the cop settles into his seat. The hitman, however, makes no effort to accommodate the Puertorriqueño’s long, muscular legs.

 _He’s close enough to_ **_smell_** _._

Zsasz’s gratification only grows when he notices Alvarez never once shifts in his seat despite their touching knees or occasionally bumping forearms _._ He also catches the man glancing at his mouth a few times. 

On the other side of the table, Chimalmat’s busily slathering his tortilla with butter and stuffing his face, blissfully unaware of anything else happening around him, even when the women join them at the table. Zsasz arches a brow at Carlos, collects some onions and bell peppers with his fork, pierces the sausage, and raises it to his mouth, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Just as Victor opens his mouth, Xoc remembers his earlier disclosure about being Jewish. 

“Ay, Mamá. I forgot to tell you. Victor es Judío.”

Xoc’s mother cringes. “Mister Victor. Lo siento. Can you eat those tamales? They’re pork.” Mortified, she quickly sucks air and presses the butt of her hand to her forehead when she remembers the beans. “¡Ay, y los frijoles! They have bacon.” 

Zsasz presses his lips together, considering the remaining hot tamal and the rest of the meal while he absently holds his fork.

Alvarez bumps his elbow and nods toward the sausage just beyond his mouth, his face apologetic. 

“Oh, man. So does the longaniza.” 

Victor peers into Alvarez’s big, dreamy brown eyes, looks down to his plate, and thoughtfully considers his options before leaning forward with a conspiratorial smirk. 

“As long as you don’t tell my grandmother.”

. . .

Zsasz and Alvarez impatiently grope and unfasten one another in a far corner of the Sosas’ darkened garage. They happily volunteered to retrieve Xoc’s labeled boxes after all the mounting sexual tension throughout dinner. The furtive glances, clandestine flirting, and fleeting touches have aroused both men _far_ past the point of better judgment. The Latino quietly mumbles, his low, hoarse voice barely audible over the sound of his unbuckling belt, their zippers, and rustling trousers.

“Just so you know. I’m not gay.”

Victor hastily licks up the side of Carlos’ neck, relishing the rasp of the man’s stubble beneath his tongue. He moans with gratitude once he has the substantial man in hand—hot, wet, _plush._ The hitman is all but swooning as the cop’s large and capable hand deftly works him, drunk on the man’s barely stifled groans, his impatient hips, and hot mouth. Zsasz shudders.

 _There’s_ **_no way_ ** _he hasn’t done this before._

The hitman can barely get out his reply—his body already getting away from him. He breathlessly groans before taking the man’s chin between his teeth and working him harder.

“Yeah, I know.”

**卌**

After loading the last of Xoc’s stuff into his Chevy and thanking her mother for the great meal, Victor closes his trunk and watches Carlos Alvarez a few houses down the street. The man, freshly showered with a clean shirt, waves back to his proud mother standing on the porch before getting into his car and driving off. 

Xoc studies the way Zsasz watches the Puerto Rican, assuming he’s sizing up the cop. Her mind circles back to how both men insisted on retrieving her stuff from the garage, grumbling when she recalls her mother’s misplaced hopefulness they were vying for her attention. 

When Alvarez drives past, the Mexicana narrows her eyes at the long, conspicuous gaze he shoots her new boss. She _knows_ that look. She has seen it countless times throughout high school and beyond. It’s the same one Carlos flashes to every girl he has sex with. The moment Xoc is alone with Zsasz in the Impala, she whips her head around, wide-eyed with disbelief. 

“No fucking way! _You didn’t!_ Tell me you did _not_ mess around with him!”

Victor’s only reply is a smug, lopsided grin and a sheepish shrug.

Xoc shakes her head and exclaims, “I thought you were into women!”

Zsasz starts his Impala and shifts it into gear, casually shrugging. “I am.” 

She screws up her face with astonishment, remembering all the girls Carlos managed to get with growing up—some of whom Xoc herself was interested in. She emphatically points back to the man who has driven off. “But he’s a dude! _A_ **_straight_ ** _dude!”_

Victor begins driving off, his reply matter-of-fact. “So? What’s the big deal?”

She shrieks, “You never said you were into dudes!”

Zsasz nonchalantly replies, “You never asked.” He lasciviously grins. “Besides. He’s _really_ hot.”

Xoc shakes her head and blinks, stammering for a moment before shouting. _“But…_ **_he’s a cop!_** _”_

Victor nods, inhales a big breath, and holds it for a minute. He peers into his rearview mirror despite knowing the attractive police officer is long gone. He huffs out a long, disappointed sigh. “Yeah, I know.” 

When they reach the four-way stop, he finally turns to her, his expression and tone more somber. 

“Say, do me a favor?” He briefly wrinkles his brow with regret before returning her gaze, his voice surprisingly thoughtful. “Don’t tell my Bubbe, okay?”

Xoc blinks with surprise and finally softens. She’s all-too-familiar with the familial and cultural pressure to be something you’re not. 

“That you’re into dudes?”

Victor dismissively scoffs.

“No!”

He shakes his head before driving through the intersection.

“That I had pig meat.”

**卌**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*cackles like a lech*_
> 
> Okay so… true story: I never intended to include Carlos Alvarez in this story when I first got the idea for it. I was gonna just write about Xoc and call it a chapter but… a serendipitous comment from fiveisarat on my Zsaszvarez fic, [ “Chorizo”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919542), got me thinking, _”Why not?”_
> 
> I made Carlos Puerto Rican ‘cause JW Cortes, the actor who plays him, is. And no. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to include some bawdy sausage humor after setting the precedent with “Chorizo”. It had nothing to do with the fact I’m basically a thirteen-year-old trapped in a middle-aged woman’s body or ‘cause fiveisarat got me all excited about the prospect of some more Zsaszvarez. I mean, c’mon! It’s so delish! 
> 
> *grins about Victor Zsasz’s love of strip searches and comino spice in 5x04! :3 “I’d let Alvarez do it. He’s handsome.”*
> 
> : : :
> 
> For any of y’all who made it to the end of this chapter without suffering serious bodily harm or contemptuously throwing rotten garbage at me: THANK YOU! I really wanted to explore a little one-shot where Zsasz sits down to break bread with my people and samples some of the bounty we have to offer! 👏🏼🤣🌶
> 
> (All goofs are mine! Please continue to notify me of any, my unofficial betas!)
> 
> Oopsie. Yeah, so... full disclosure: I haven’t even figured out what I’m doin’ next chapter so... uh... I have _no_ clue when it might be up so... please don’t hit me! Okay, byeeeee!!!!


	3. How Deep Is Your Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xoc meets one of Zsasz's friends and learns more about the twins.

**卌**

Xoc checks the security cameras outside and absently chews her lip, wondering how Zsasz’s basement “chat” is going. She never got a look at the hostage Victor dragged from the trunk of his car, but knew the man was bound to have a night he’d never forget—assuming of course he _survived_ it. 

The latina has yet to see Victor _“work”_ downstairs so she’s curious. She glances over a shoulder before clicking on the basement monitor, only to discover a snowy screen indicating the camera’s off. Apparently, _this_ playmate isn’t a big enough player to warrant blackmail, “insurance”, or ransom.

_Shit._

When Zsasz arrived earlier with his “guest”, Saffronia and Egypt (the equally tall, angular, and athletically-built sisters) followed Victor as they normally do: side-by-side in perfect tandem with matching hairstyles, makeup, and outfits. Were it not for their coloring, the long-legged stunners would be identical, but Saffronia is pale as Egypt is dark. Saffie has dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, whereas Egypt’s hair and eyes are like onyx.

Though Xoc joined the crew several weeks ago, she _still_ struggles not to stare at the comely sisters or how uncannily aligned they are—often answering for the other when posed a question or finishing the other’s thought, communicating through some kind of telepathy. The mohawked woman thinks back to Saff and E’s earlier exchange with Zsasz, still trying to decipher what the trio communicated to one another. 

Victor forced his Sig Sauer Nightmare against the head of his hooded mark. Saffronia casually regarded Zsasz’s “playmate” before turning to him. 

_“Your track ready?”_

Victor thoughtfully looked up for a moment. 

_“Mmm…. Nuh-uh.”_

Egypt curtly nodded and strode for the basement, casually asking over a shoulder.

 _“‘Inside out’_ or _‘too much’?”_ E snapped her fingers and stopped a moment before turning back around. _"How deep?’”_

Zsasz tilted his head and squinted before breaking into that wide, unnerving grin he has. Xoc swears he has more teeth than a normal human. She still recalls how his voice rumbled.

_"I'm thinking… **deep.”**_

Saffie purred in response.

 _“Meatball’s gonna_ **_love_ ** **_that_** _.”_

Xoc clicks off the basement monitor when the outside motion sensors go off. The twins are back with pizza and some voluptuous “company”. The wiry latina wolf-whistles and hollers out to Tasha stretched out like a cat on the black leather furniture in the lounge, unable to tear her eyes from the screen.

“Saff and E brought a friend.” 

Tasha slinks up in a tight leather mini dress with a corset top. “What’s she look like?”

Xoc appreciatively shakes her head. “Short. Dark. _Curvy.”_ She growls, _“_ ** _Thick._** ”

“She wearing somethin’ tight and bright with a plunging neckline?”

Xoc appreciatively hums in reply.

La’Tasha puffs with amusement, _"_ _That_ would be Solange. Before the twins worked for Victor, they worked with her at the Foxglove.” 

“What’s the Foxglove?”

The standing woman considers the question for a moment. “Mmm… the Foxglove is better _experienced_ than explained.” She bumps Xoc’s shoulder with her hip. “We‘ll take you sometime.” Tasha knowingly smirks until she catches a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. Her makeup could use a touch-up. She waves Xoc toward the long corridor leading to the entrance of their hidey hole. 

“Go help ‘em with the food. I _have_ to get this shine off my nose.” Tash turns toward the lounge and loudly summons Meatball.

Her large, meaty pet scurries up in his face harness with a dog bone gag that matches his red latex bloomers with ruffles. Sometimes, when Tash is “done” with him, she lets the twins dress him up or switch out his accessories. 

Meatball compliantly offers his mistress a brightly-colored novelty clutch that says, _Bitches get shit done_. 

Xoc shudders at the wretched man with loose, excess skin from significant weight loss. “He’s so… **_gross!_** _Why_ do you keep him, anyways?”

Tasha blinks and shakes her head with disbelief, pointing a manicured nail to her snug outfit. 

“Right now? To carry my cosmetics because I am _not_ ** _about_** to ruin _this_ look with a purse or pockets!” La’Tasha scoffs, grabs her compact and lipstick from the clutch without acknowledging her large pet.

“I can assure you Meatball isn’t any more _‘gross’_ than the basement when Victor’s on one of his blowtorch kicks.” After reapplying her lipstick, La’Tasha looks up from her compact and puffs a mirthless snort. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Xoc’s eyes drift to Meatball’s burns and uglier scars, soon remembering Zsasz’s neatly-mounted hand torch and other tools on his black metal pegboard. She coveted Victor’s workbench and toolkits when he gave her “the tour” of his soundproof workroom. The dangling meat hooks, floor drain, and heavy-duty restraints on his industrial table and barber chair, on the other hand, all warranted a brow raise.

Xoc hurries down the hallway and quickly checks her appearance when she recalls their curvy visitor, patting her mohawk she styled into a deconstructed quiff. After opening the door, Saffronia and Egypt’s companion brazenly ogles her. The woman slinks forward in her bright coral dress and peep-toes, licking her glossy lips and lowering her voice to a sultry purr. 

“Well _hello,_ handsome. I’m Solange.”

The curvy woman’s assertiveness catches Xoc flat-footed. When she feels the heat on her face, she clears her throat and offers a hand. 

“I’m Xoc.”

Solange wags a manicured finger and shakes her head, shushing her. The curvy woman struts in like she owns the place.

“Oh no, stud. _I’m a_ **_hugger_** _._ ”

Before Xoc realizes it, she’s weak-kneed and swooning in Solange’s arms and ample pulchritude. Just as Xoc begins melting into Solange’s heady embrace, a grope to her ass jerks her to attention. She blinks and helplessly looks up to the twins, amusedly grinning.

Saffie shakes her head.

“It’s okay, _‘stud’_.”

Egypt struts by.

“She has the same effect on Victor.”

. . .

Xoc can still feel the heat on her face when she finally makes it downstairs with Meatball to put him down for the night. Not only did she learn the _hard_ way why everyone insists she carry the cattle prod when she handles him—but she also discovered why the man should only be called “Meatball”. 

Upstairs, Solange recognized Don Falcone’s former fixer and pointed to him, saying his _actual_ name. _Out loud._ The normally docile behemoth quickly grew unruly and dragged Xoc halfway around the lounge before she managed to subdue him. She is _still_ smarting from embarrassment. Her athletic shirt, once neatly-tucked into her black pleated trousers, is now stretched out and ripped. Xoc angrily blows away an errant lock of hair and returns a suspender over her shoulder, huffing about her scuffed wingtips.

Meatball looks dolefully to the cubby where the twins store the brightly-patterned footie pajamas his Mistress allows him to wear when he has been “a good boy”. The cheery pjs are a stark contrast to the heavy-duty industrial compartment within which they are neatly folded and stacked, the space-themed ones lying on top. Xoc yanks his leash and growls at the large man as they walk past. 

“No rockets tonight, asshole. You fucked up. **_Bad._** ”

Whatever’s going on in the workshop is loud. The soundproof room muffles a lot but not enough for outsiders to know indistinguishable music is playing inside. When Meatball grows antsy before the large, heavy door, Xoc promptly threatens him into submission with the cattle prod. 

“Don’t even _think_ about it. I’m _onto_ you now.”

Xoc presses the buzzer to notify Victor he’s about to have company and opens the heavy door, taken aback by the wall of sound. As she nods the large man in, she recognizes [ the dreamy, harmonized Bee Gees’ opening and Barry Gibbs’ unmistakable voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpqqjU7u5Yc).

_I know your eyes in the morning sun_  
_I feel you touch me in the pouring rain_  
_And the moment that you wander far from me_  
_I wanna feel you in my arms again..._

The odd couple walks up the small corridor that opens to Zsasz’s workroom. Only then does she register the loud, choking sounds—punctuating by gasps and screams between lyrics. 

**“Gggkkkhhh! Please don’t! AAARRGGHHKKK!!!”**

_And you come to me on a summer breeze_  
_Keep me warm in your love, then you softly leave..._

When they round the corner, Xoc finds Victor shirtless and towering over his hostage, bloody and restrained on Zsasz’s heavy-duty inversion table, its surface tilted back so his victim’s feet are higher than his head. The basement reeks of sweat, urine, bile, and terror.

_And it's me you need to show_  
_How deep is your love?_

Victor’s hostage struggles to catch a breath, hampered by the powerful grip Zsasz has on his neck, only for Victor place a plastic carryout bag from Frankie’s Pizzeria over his head.

_How deep is your love?_  
_I really mean to learn..._

Xoc absently blinks at the man’s wide terrified eyes _just_ visible through the semi-transparent bag, his suffocation evident from the bag’s rise and fall to the tune of a saccharine-sweet disco ballad. 

_'Cause we're living in a world of fools_  
_Breaking us down_  
_When they all should let us be_  
_We belong to you and me…_

When Xoc finally remembers to breathe, she shifts her focus to Victor. The way his eyes are gleaming is _inhuman._

_I believe in you_  
_You know the door to my very soul..._

Zsasz turns to the duo, his gaze falling to Meatball’s red latex bloomers. 

“Where are your spaceships?”

Victor’s brow crinkles with confusion until he notices Xoc’s disheveled appearance. All the while, his hostage struggles in vain against his binds. 

_You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour_  
_You're my savior when I fall..._

Zsasz flashes a wide, unsettling grin. 

“Guess Carlo here isn’t the _only_ one who’s been naughty.” 

Meatball spontaneously rocks and keens through his gag.

_And you may not think I care for you_  
_When you know down inside that I really do..._

Victor nods Meatball over and lowers his voice. “C’mon. Let’s wash his mouth out.” 

_And it's me you need to show_  
_How deep is your love?_

When the large man nervously shakes his head and shuffles on his feet, Victor growls in a chilling baritone. _“Meatball.”_

_How deep is your love?_  
_I really mean to learn…_

Xoc watches, rooted in place while Meatball reluctantly heads for the faucet with a hose attached. The man’s large hands shake uncontrollably when he reaches for the knob. Meatball keens through his dog bone gag as he approaches Victor with the hose, a robust stream of water spilling from the nozzle. 

_'Cause we're living in a world of fools_  
_Breaking us down_  
_When they all should let us be_  
_We belong to you and me_  
_I believe in you..._

Zsasz grins like a predator lying in wait. “ _Atta_ boy.”

_You know the door to my very soul_  
_You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour_  
_You're my savior when I fall..._

Victor points to the speakers blaring the music and addresses Meatball in that voice he has which is incongruously soothing as it is terrifying. “It’s our song. I played it for you our _first_ time, remember?” When Meatball squeezes his eyes shut, Zsasz wistfully grins and warmly pats the large man’s shoulder. “Good times.” 

_...And you may not think I care for you_  
_When you know down inside that I really do_  
_And it's me you need to show_  
_How deep is your love?_

Out of nowhere, Zsasz produces a knife and stabs at the hostage’s open mouth, allowing the man to get in his first half-decent breath only to choke from the pain and the blood gushing from his wounds. Victor’s grin is wide and wolfish.

“Sorry, Carlo. What was that again?”

Xoc’s lips part when Meatball reluctantly lifts the hose to the hostage’s face.

 _“Ggggggk!”_ The man chokes again. _“N-n-n-no please! Tell Don Fal—kkkggkkkhhh!!”_

_How deep is your love? Is your love how deep is your love…_

: : :

Xoc absently eats her pizza and nods at the buzzing conversation, hopelessly unable to shake what she saw downstairs, the images and song replaying on a repeated loop in her mind’s eye, like the rise and fall of the Frankie’s Pizzeria logo on the plastic bag over Carlo’s head and his wide, terrified eyes.

_How deep is your love? Is your love how deep is your love..._

Egypt nods over towards Solange who is seated between Xoc and Victor. She explains to Xoc between bites of garlic bread.

“Solange is a hostess at the Foxglove—some say _the_ hostess.”

Saffronia tears off some pizza crust, dipping it into some marinara sauce. “Yeah. E and I worked there with her there before—.”

Zsasz muffles a smug reply through a huge bite of pepperoni pizza, looking wholly pleased with himself.

“They started working for me.”

Solange grows indignant, loudly harrumphing and smacking his arm. “After you _poached them!_ ”

Xoc wipes her mouth and reaches for her bottle of beer, casually pointing it toward the twins before taking a swig. She pushes past the sound of her swallowing so she doesn’t have to think about Carlo’s choking and the memory of spilling water. She takes a deep breath and nervously clears her throat.

“Were you hostesses, too?”

Victor shakes his head and suggestively growls.

“Featured performers.”

Solange wistfully sighs, “Yeah, they were. In fact, they got so popular, they got the attention of Maroni’s twins.”

Xoc almost spits out her beer, “Hold up. Tommy Bones and Frankie Carbone are twins?”

Solange nudges the wiry woman. “No, Bones and Carbone are his _men_. We’re talking about Salvatore Maroni’s sons, Pino and Umberto.”

“Wait. I’m confused. He’s got… _sons?_ Why isn’t Maroni grooming them to take over?”

Victor grins. “‘Cause they messed up. They got caught messin’ around with friends of the Falcone family. They even tried sellin’ out their old man to save their own asses.” 

Xoc’s face blanks with disbelief. “No shit??”

Zsasz nonchalantly explains between bites. “We took ‘em hostage and kidnapped them.” He wipes his mouth and nods towards the twins. “ _Technically_ , Saffie and Egypt took ‘em hostage and I transported them so… _I’m_ the one who kidnapped them.” 

Victor leans over toward Solange and nudges her. “Couldn’t have smuggled them out without being noticed if it wasn’t for Solange’s help.” He looks up in mock contemplation before kissing at the curvy woman’s neck and winking. “I think the legal term is ‘aiding and abetting’.”

Xoc looks back and forth between the three women like she’s watching a tennis match. Solange dabs her mouth with a napkin to keep from smearing her lipstick and wags her manicured finger.

“Maroni’s twins would have _never_ gotten in the door had our accountant not gotten in deep with them. He’s the one who arranged for their invites.”  
  
Xoc takes another bite of pizza. “Invites?”

Zsasz reaches for his rootbeer. “The Foxglove is a private club. _Nobody_ gets in without an invitation.”

Solange bumps Xoc’s arm, “Except Victor and Mr. Penn. They found and retrieved the club’s embezzled money that our old accountant stole to pay off his debts. Mr. Penn found inconsistencies in our books. Victor used his powers of persuasion to _obtain_ what he stole.”

Victor grins. “With some help from Barry, Robin, and Maurice.”

Xoc finally makes sense of Zsasz’s earlier conversation with the twins, her lips parting. 

_The Bee Gees._

She wryly smirks at Zsasz. “So, which song: [ _‘Love You Inside Out’_ ](https://youtu.be/hyeI8Paf6sw) , [ _‘Too Much Heaven’_ ](https://youtu.be/i6iBAuwBODA) , or [ _‘How Deep Is Your Love’_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpqqjU7u5Yc)?”

Solange makes a face and sardonically chuckles. “ _‘Too Much Heaven’_. I have _seen_ some things in my day but that night?!" She shakes her head. "Lawd! That song ain't never been the same for me since!” 

Xoc picks up her pizza and looks at the sisters. “Okay but wait. How did you catch Maroni’s twins?” 

Saffornia wipes her mouth. “The club’s old accountant got in deep with the Maroni twins, who were running their father’s gambling rackets back then. Our old accountant tried bribing them with club comps.”  
  
Egypt finishes for her twin. “Umberto and Pino thought _we_ should be one of the comps.”

Zsasz takes a few long swallows of his root beer. “Yeah, when I got to the club, I saw Pino and Umberto grabbing Saffie and Egypt and forcing them upstairs to the private rooms, knowing full well The Twins were _not_ to be touched.”

When Xoc’s brow crinkles with confusion, Solange explains. “Their dad is best friends with one of Don Falcone’s capos.”

The Twins reply in unison, “‘Uncle’ Janos _Szabo_.”

Victor shakes his head and chuckles with amusement, “I kid you not, Xoc. By the time I got across the club and found the room they were in, Saff and E had not only stripped and hogtied them, they were _pegging_ ‘em.”  
  
The sisters mischievously crinkle their noses, “They told us they wanted some rough twin action.”

Xoc blinks. “Wait. You did what? How did you...?” She shakes her head, confused. “You guys just happened to have all that shit with you at the club? The rope?” She leans forward, disbelief all over her face. “Your dildoes and harnesses?”

The twins' confused expressions mirror Xoc’s. “Well, _yeah_.”

Tasha waves her hand, piping up to clarify for everyone. “She’s never been.”  
  
Solange purses her lips and sidles up to Xoc, stroking her wiry, tattooed arm. “Victor Zsasz, you must bring this fine stud to come see me at The Foxglove, immediately!” 

Xoc’s body flushes with warmth from Solange’s attention. She clears her throat and tries to appear casual. “So, did you guys just drag them out… _naked and hogtied?_ ”

The sisters respond, “We smuggled ‘em out in sensory deprivation masks and bags.”

“Like Meatball’s? The club has _those_ too?”  
  
Solange caresses Xoc’s forearm and purrs, “The Foxglove has something for _everyone_. You’ll see. I’ll give you a personal tour. Very, _very_ personal.”  
  
Zsasz deflates when Solange teases Xoc, wistfully shaking his head. _“Lucky.”_

Everyone regales Xoc with the details about a wild night of coercion and intimidation that ended the next morning when they dumped Maroni's twins outside their father's business front, Bamonte’s (along with incriminating blackmail recordings and photographs). After that fateful day, no one has seen neither hide nor hair of the Pino and Umberto in Gotham City. If the rumors are true, they’re lying low on the other side of the country in Coast City.

**. . .**

Later that evening, Xoc thumbs through the infamous blackmail photographs, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, tilting her head or the photos to get a better look. When she reaches the final one, she absently raises her hand to her open mouth. Zsasz leans over and points to the graphic photograph of the Maroni twins in sexual congress, grinning with smug satisfaction.

“That one’s my favorite. It was hard to get the angle just right.” He elbows the small woman. “Umberto and Pino swore they'd do _anything_ for us to let ‘em off easy. Bet they never dreamed their twin fantasy that night would end up so twincesty.”

卌

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The obvious inspiration for this story was the Bee Gees' _"How Deep Is Your Love?"._ I mean, one cannot love disco without loving Donna Summer or the Bee Gees. It's like... the law or something. 
> 
> After a long writing drought, I compiled a playlist of my all-time fave disco classics for inspiration (and because I am old enough to have fond memories the ‘70s disco era). When I heard HDIYL, I just imagined Victor towering over his torture victim and a fic was born. (Ah, and speaking of disco and Donna Summer, check out [ Filthycasual’s “Disco Night”](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28882644/chapters/70854021) if you haven't yet for some GorZsasz deliciousness.)
> 
> Maroni’s twins, Umberto and Pino? They’re from the comics apparently. I didn’t wanna venture too far off Gotham canon-wise so, I decided to use them, though I probably went totally overboard with the twin stuff. *shrugs* Any of y’all who’ve read some of my other things know my OC Solange usually makes an appearance in my stories that involve the Foxglove.
> 
> I got the idea about Meatball being led around on a leash from my fave fanfic crush and recipient of this humble work, ifnot_winter. I just remember a convo about dresses with pockets because it’s sadly _not_ “socially acceptable” to drag a man on a leash to carry all ones things or something, so... *sheepishly looks side to side*
> 
> Okay, for anyone who read, thanks for stopping by and special thanks to all y'all who were kind enough to comment. It means so very, very much. Like, I can't even.
> 
> You know the drill: holler if you catch any goofs so I can fix 'em! Peace, y'all! ✌️


End file.
